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1
Roman Dwyer sat hunched over his desk, the only light emanating from the sleek, modern desk lamp that cast long shadows across the room. He had the best spot in the building, a corner office on the twelfth floor that offered a grand view of downtown Boston, including the Boston Common—the oldest public park in the United States—and the Charles River. On a clear day, he could see the USS Constitution in the harbor, the visitors checking out her decks looking like tiny black specks.
But the city lights offered little comfort this Friday night, and he rubbed his tired eyes. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, a relentless reminder that the world outside continued to spin, even as his own seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse.
His mahogany desk, polished to a shine, sat like a linchpin, his battle station against the world’s most nefarious. Papers were strewn across the surface, folders stacked haphazardly, Post-its with scribbled notes stuck to his curved monitor—all evidence of the case that had consumed his life for the last few months. Senator Whitman, the epitome of corruption and power, was now within reach.
As a district attorney, he was used to working long hours, but this latest case was the battle of his career—and maybe his life. Senator Douglas Whitman III, the senior senator for the great state of Massachusetts, had a pedigree that spanned two centuries. He was a prominent public figure tolerated by his constituents, respected by his friends, and feared by his enemies. But the polished veneer hid something rotten underneath. After months of quietly gathering evidence, Roman was close to exposing the truth about the senator’s backroom dealings.
Roman scanned the incriminating documents for the gazillionth time. Combined efforts of his office and the FBI had uncovered a lot of evidence against Whitman, but it wasn’t enough. Yet. It was sufficient to get a grand jury to indict Whitman but not enough for the actual court case.
With anyone else, he would’ve felt confident taking it to court, but with Whitman, he needed more. The senator would fight with everything at his disposal, and the man had money, connections, and more power than any one man should ever have. This case had to be beyond watertight, the evidence so overwhelming a jury would declare a guilty verdict within an hour. The weight of the case pressed down on Roman like the Boston air before a nor’easter dumping ten inches of snow.
His stomach growled, a testament to the hours since his last meal. Half-empty cartons of sweet-and-sour chicken and rice stood on the edge of his desk, a reminder of the life he’d left behind in pursuit of justice. Once upon a time, back when he’d still been starting his career, he would’ve been home in time for dinner. His marriage was just another casualty on the list, alongside his sanity and any semblance of a normal life.
His phone buzzed, and Roman’s heart skipped a beat. He picked it up with a hand that betrayed no tremor though his pulse hammered in his ears. The message was curt, the words slicing through him.
Drop the case or face the consequences. Next time, we won’t ask so nicely. We’re done being patient.
No name, no traceable number—just another anonymous threat that felt like the hiss of a viper before it attacked. He screenshot the message with a practiced calm he didn’t feel and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight as fear slithered up his spine.
This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten a message like this. They’d been coming for weeks now, each more pointed than the last and escalating in intensity. His home had been broken into, he was being followed, and online, the wildest stories were circulating about him—all fabrications. Combined with some strange events, these incidents were slowly but surely getting to him.
As much as he wanted to tell himself he was fine and everything was fine, the truth was that he was far from fine. And this time, the message had made clear they were escalating. How much worse could his life get? He was afraid to find out.
The threats had to come from Whitman, though Roman had zero proof. But who else could it be? On any given day, his office handled many important cases, but none had ever been as big as the one against Whitman.
Exhaustion seeped into his bones. When was the last time he’d slept through the night? Two weeks ago? Maybe even longer? Between the long hours on the case and constantly watching his back, he was unraveling at the seams.
He swept an agitated hand over his face. He couldn’t keep doing this alone. But who could he trust?
Should he go to the police? The thought surfaced again, as it had many times before, but he dismissed it. Whitman’s influence ran too deep. The man had countless cops and politicians in his pocket, and Roman couldn’t risk exposing his investigation to potentially corrupt officers.
He didn’t want to leave town either. The idea of taking time off was unthinkable. Too many important cases needed him, none more so than Whitman’s. He’d been building this case for a year, piece by painstaking piece, and he wouldn’t let it crumble now.
Maybe he really was going crazy. Recent events certainly hinted at him losing his mind.
With a sigh, Roman shut down his computer and gathered his things with leaden limbs. He locked his office behind him and trudged to the parking garage underneath his building. The dimly lit space always put him on edge, with too many shadows and places for someone to hide. Roman’s senses strained, alert to any out-of-place sound as he walked to his car. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow on the concrete pillars. A prickle of unease tickled at the back of his neck, and he quickened his pace.
Safely inside his BMW with the doors locked, Roman rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He couldn’t keep living like this. But the thought of backing down made bile rise in his throat. Whitman had been able to get away with his corruption for far too long, and Roman was so close to taking him down.
The familiar streets of Boston passed by in a blur as he drove home, but tonight, they felt alien, hostile. It had been a cold winter, and snow banks lined the roads like silent sentinels, their white purity marred by the city’s grime. It all looked so pretty—until you dug deeper under that pristine surface. Just like with Whitman.
The silence became too overwhelming. He needed to talk to someone. He needed someone to tell him he wasn’t going insane.
Before he could second-guess himself, Roman told Siri to call Wander.
“What’s wrong?” Wander, Roman’s younger brother, said as he picked up.
“And a good evening to you too.” Out of habit, Roman checked his watch. Oh shit, it was almost one in the morning. “Or I should say good night. Sorry, I didn’t realize the time.”
“Hence my question. You wouldn’t call this late unless something was wrong, yeah? Does this have something to do with the personal problems you mentioned last week?”
Hearing his brother’s calm voice released some of the tension in Roman’s shoulders. He talked to his brother at least once a week, and perceptive as he was, Wander had picked up on something being off. Roman had told him he was having some personal issues, unsure what else to say. But maybe it was time to reveal more.
He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “I’m involved in a complicated case, and I’ve been getting threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
